Red Robin: Skittles and Vanilla Ice Cream
by MissScorp
Summary: What does a grieving birdie need? Skittles and vanilla ice cream. One-shot, appearances of Dick Grayson, Tim Drake and Damian Wayne. K for family/hurt/comfort and family bonding. Complete.


**A/N:** This story is set inside Red Robin issue #1 and can be seen as an addition to what might have occurred between the pages we don't see.

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I'm _sorta_ an only child.

See, I say _sorta_ because biologically, I don't have any siblings. Not by choice, mind you. My father wanted a son (girls only have one use in the mind of my father) in order to carry on our family name. My mother wanted a son in hopes her husband would stop knocking her around (and blaming her for having cursed him with a useless daughter). I was the only one in our twisted little household who wanted a little brother simply because I was desperately lonely, terribly alone, and because well, little brothers just seemed like they'd be the most _fun_ to have around. I would be a few months shy of twenty-two before a little brother would come barreling into my life like some out of control steam engine.

What am I talking about? Well, lemme tell you.

I'd just moved to Blüdhaven. I'd only been back on the East coast for a few months, in fact. Wanting to enter a noble and worthy civil profession (my uncle is Commissioner James Gordon after all); I joined the BCPD. I was just beginning to settle in, getting used to being close to _home_ (I was born in Gotham) and reconnecting with my best friend: Dick Grayson. I say _reconnecting_ because five years before I moved to Blüdhaven, I exiled myself from Gotham and my family in order to protect them. Dick and I maintained an open line of communication (phone calls, emails, letters we'd sneak to the other by a mutual ally) over those years, of course, and we'd seen each other infrequently (birthdays and Christmas mostly), but those things merely kept our friendship open.

There were still five years of changes, of growth and life we'd each lived that changed us from the sixteen-year olds we'd been once upon a time. We needed to discover just who the people we were now fit into the people we'd been. Not that it mattered, mind you. You can split Dick and I apart for a century, and it'll be like only a day or two has passed. We're best friends. No matter how much we change, or we grow, the basic elements of who we are, and what makes us friends remains the same. We'll be there for each other at the worst of times, and we'll be there for each other through the best of times.

I'm getting away from myself, however.

So, there I was in an abandoned warehouse down at the Blüdhaven docks late one night, locked in mock combat with Dick (who'd hesitantly agreed to refine my skills as a crime fighter) when I found myself suddenly being attacked by this masked dynamo intent on protecting his idol, and friend. Like a thief, that little Robin stole inside the walls around my heart and took it hostage. I was his willing victim. I'm still his willing victim to be quite honest with you. I've been with Tim Drake through some dark and desperate times. He's been there for me through some dark and desperate times. And we're gonna be there for each other through this rough patch, too. That's what siblings do for each other in times like these.

"You want _me_ to back off?" I hear Tim growl. "Fine!"

Yup, totally have walked into the cave at the tail end of what I assume has been yet another rousing discussion between Tim and Dick. I can see Dick is currently standing in front of the main computer station, dressed in the Batsuit (still getting adjusted to seeing him in that infamous armor for the record), grasping a simmering Tim by the shoulder. Tim yanks away and begins to storm towards the exit even as Dick says, "He's gone, Tim. You have to accept it. Things have to change. But I still need you."

I can hear Tim snarling a few choice curses (a couple which I can tell he learned from me) from where I am standing in the shadows of the stairwell. I glance up at Dick and see his face wreathed in sorrow and regret. Briefly, his eyes meet mine. _C'mon, Grayson_ I tell him silently. _Rise up and be his big brother. It's what he needs right now._

"For what?" Damian Wayne, the natural son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul snarks from his position at Dick's side. I glance at the boy and see him dressed in a pirated Robin outfit. It doesn't take a genius to know that our Batman has finally selected his Robin. _Shit_, is my only thought. It's not that I don't think Damian doesn't have potential to be a good Robin. Under Dick's more gentle method of mentoring, the kid has the potential to be a great Robin. It's the al Ghul and elite Assassin part of the boy which concerns me the most. He's already tried to kill Tim once, has killed one criminal already and has shown he has absolutely zero respect for his new partner (despite choosing to remain with him).

There's also the fact that the kid just reeks of arrogance (which I blame not only the al Ghul part of the kid's DNA for, but his growing up in the care of a woman who, herself, reeks of narcissism). There's this snotty and supercilious smirk upon the nine-year-olds face I'd love to erase, but I can't because I am not his guardian. Nor am I his mentor. Which is why I fix my best friend with a look that I hope conveys just how I think he needs to deal with his new protégé.

"Shut up, Damian," Dick says. He doesn't growl it. No, he just sounds exhausted. My heart aches for him. It really does. This is my best friend (and the man whom I've been in love with since I was fourteen). Bruce was his father as much as he was Tim's, Jason's and Damian's. But it isn't Dick who needs me right now. It's Tim. That's why I turn on one foot and make my way back up the stairs into the heart of Wayne Manor.

Wayne Manor echoes with a burning silence. It feels like the house is wrapped in the arms of the cold shadows slithering across the polished floors, dancing in the corners and playing hide-and-seek in the numerous rooms the Manor has. There are tangled webs of memories that are hanging over this house. Memoirs that now sigh and weep with the dark secrets that are hidden deep inside the Manor's brick and wooden infrastructure. My heart is heavy as I make my way into the massive kitchen. That this house and its residents all miss its Patriarch is obvious by the shroud of despair and grief which hangs over everything.

I'm alone in the kitchen so I waste no time in going to the freezer to get out a plastic carton of vanilla ice cream. I then grab spoons from a drawer, grab a bag of Skittles from off a shelf by the door and with the ice cream in hand, make my way upstairs. Vanilla ice cream and Skittles were, for the record, something that was mine and Bruce's. It was our little tradition. It's a tradition which I am now going to share with Tim because good traditions should be passed on. And this is a tradition which Tim and I can share because it gives us something of Bruce to continue holding onto. When I reach his bedroom door I pause, balance the ice cream and candy in one hand and use the other to lightly tap at the door.

"Tim?" I call out softly. "May I come in?"

I hear him mutter something that doesn't sound like a "yes," but which I take as one anyway. I turn the handle and gently nudge the door open with my hip.

"Hey..." I begin saying, but my voice trails off as I get a look at the destruction he's wrought to his bedroom. None of us tends to be bound by the need to have a great deal of 'stuff'. It has always been a case of material possessions not being as important as the immaterial ones to the three of us (Bruce tends to value his gadgets and gizmos just so you know). Tim's bedroom looks like a tornado has blown through it. His desk chair has been thrown across the room, his bookcase and desk has been emptied of all their contents—the books and DVDs once gracing the shelves flung all around the room along with a mountain of papers. There's also glass from where a lamp did not survive being tossed across the room fanned out across the bed and dusted across the floor. Seated on the floor in the middle of his chaos is the man (just when did my little Robin become a man?) responsible.

"Well, I can see you've been busy," I say dryly.

"Yup," he rasps. I skirt the glass on the floor (bare feet can be a serious hazard in this house) and walk over to where he's sitting. Tim doesn't even look up at me. I'm not bugged by it. I know my birdie is hurting.

"I've got some vanilla ice cream and Skittles," I say gently. "Thought we could snack and talk if ya want."

"Ice cream and Skittles are not going to make my pain go away, Raya."

"No," I say softly. "But talking about the pain while eating ice cream and Skittles will help with lessening it some."

"How?" he demands in a hard whisper. "How is vanilla ice cream and Skittles gonna help lessen the pain?"

I set the carton of ice cream and bag of Skittles down on the nightstand (which was tossed over to the opposite side of the room by the way) before I settle on the floor next to him. "I didn't understand it at first either," I tell him gently. "I thought Bruce was outta his mind when he told me Skittles and vanilla ice cream was going to help me with the pain I was feeling over my mother's death. But," I say, feeling the corner of my lips curving up into a smile. "He was right. It did help. Course, I think it was the talking more than the snacks which really did the trick."

He finally lifts his head to look at me. It isn't the anger or the hurt on his face that is my undoing. It is the look in those royal blue eyes...so naked and raw with the whirl of emotions I know are hammering at him which pierce all the way to my soul. Seeing my Robin, my little brother, so broken by the tragedy which has befallen our family causes my heart to ache, one slow, twisting ache which hurts worse than a fist to the belly. Even as his body jerks, then stiffens, I reach out and smooth my fingers over his rough cheek. I can feel the muscles in his jaw throb against my palm and know he is keeping a tight lid upon himself at that moment. Whether it is because he fears he could hurt me if he unloads some of the things eating away at him, or fear about what could be unleashed should he finally let the floodgates open, I do not know. I just know he has put a lid upon what he is feeling and that I need to crack that lid in order to help him begin healing.

"I know you think I don't understand, Tim," I say gently. "But I do."

"Right," he says with a snort. "It's because you're grieving for him as well. Spare me the empathic psychobabble, Raya. I'm seriously not in the mood for it."

"Okay," I say. "Then how about I tell you about understanding just how helpless you feel right at this moment? How about I tell you about knowing about how much you hate yourself, blame yourself for not being stronger, smarter, faster? How about I tell you I know how much you are sitting here right now and wishing you could turn back time and undo everything you did do for what you think you ought to have done so that you might have saved him."

"This isn't about my best friend..." he says heatedly.

"I'm not talking about my best friend either, Tim," I interject in a low whisper. "I'm talking about my mother."

"Your mother?" he frowns his confusion. I give him a nod. "I fail to see the similarities here."

Pockets and doors I've kept welded shut begin to shiver and shake. Only for my little brother will I open my wounds and bleed. "I was there the night my mother was shot, Tim. I held her in my arms as she took her final breaths. I watched the life fade from her eyes." I see the light of realization dawn upon his face. Before he can say anything, I continue by saying, "I've lived every night since her death wondering what I could have done differently, how I could have stopped her from being shot." Just this small admission, this slight bit of truth causes the magma and hot gases inside me begin to boil. "I've always held myself to blame for her death. So I understand everything you feel right now because I feel it too. I've felt everything you are feeling right now for the last twelve years of my life, in fact."

* * *

Her knowing exactly what he was feeling was Tim's undoing. Everything—all the grief and anger and pain inside him burst from him in one soul shattering eruption. He scrambled away from Raya, putting what distance he could between them to prevent her from being swept up into the explosion slowly engulfing him in its fiery clutches. Grief turned to fury, a raging tidal wave of sensations which left Tim swimming in a red haze. With a howl that reminded Raya of a wounded grizzly bear, he reared back and slammed his fist against the wall. Flesh and bone cracked, split; splattering blood over the one gilt framed mirror he'd left hanging. The physical pain only registered dimly. He slid down the wall, cradling his throbbing head between his bleeding fingers. Suddenly he was crying, great heaving sobs that left him gasping for air. His grief tore at her heart more than his act of violence against himself had.

"Oh, baby." She fumbled for the light switch she knew was to the left of her, but couldn't find it. She crawled over to him, and cradled him in her arms. "Shhhh, it's okay. It's okay. I've got you, Timmy."

His arms wound around her like moss around a fence post. "I don't believe it," he whispered brokenly against her shoulder. "I don't believe Bruce is dead. I don't believe Darkseid's attack was able to kill him…" he paused; sighed. "He's _Batman_, Raya." His arms tightened about her in quiet desperation, with a dark need for her to anchor him here in reality. "_Batman_ can't die! Not like this!"

She rested her cheek against his downy hair and closed her eyes to contain the moisture which was burning hotly behind the lids. "He was only a man, Tim," she spoke gently now. "Good men die every night of the week. You know that."

"Not him," he stubbornly insisted. "Not like this."

She held him just a bit tighter before saying, "I wanna believe I will walk into that cave and find him brooding in front of that damned computer. I wanna wake up and find out this entire affair is just one horrible nightmare we've all been sharing." Her sigh ruffled the hair at his temples and her hands stroked his back in soft and slow circles. "God, Tim, I wanna believe you're _right_. I wanna believe Bruce somehow, _somehow_ figured out a way to outsmart Darkseid. But he's gone and we have to work around to accepting that fact. As painful and as difficult as this fact is, we have to move on. Just as he wanted us too."

She was right, he thought as he clung to her. Dammit, she was right. He wanted to _believe _though. He wanted to believe Batman had not been defeated by his enemy, that he was just injured and couldn't reach out to them for help. Yet he knew she was right. Their father was gone and he was not magically coming back. Not this time. Moving on, though? He wasn't sure he could do that. Moving on required him to let Bruce go. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to his mentor. To his hero. To his _father_.

"I miss him, Raya." The grief of it trembled in his voice, was in the sound of his tears. "I miss him so goddamn much it hurts. Some days it's all I can do just to get out of bed. I don't think I can continue to go on as if there's nothing wrong, as if we haven't lost our mentor, our idol, our father. And sometimes," he whispered on a sigh. "Sometimes I just wanna say forget it all and run away to some deserted island where nobody can find me."

"That's the grief talking."

"When does it stop talking?" he questioned in a harsh whisper. "When do the voices finally shut up?"

"Soon, baby," she crooned. "Soon."

He wasn't sure it'd be soon enough. "All I want is oblivion- five freaking minutes of nothing in my head so I can pull myself back together. Is that really too much to ask?"

There was desperation, and the kind of insanity she knew that only sorrow can cause captured inside his question. He was begging her for an answer she just could not give him, no matter how much she might have wanted too. All she could do was sit there on the floor with her arms wrapped around him, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles and listening as he poured out his grief and anger.

"I know how you feel, Tim." At his nonsensical murmur she turned her head and pressed a kiss to his hair. "Right now you're this huge, acidic ball full which is full of anger and hatred and hurt and sadness. You're wondering why this happened. And there's a part of you feeling like you shoulda done something, like if you'd been a second faster, just a bit smarter, that he'd be here right now."

"Wouldn't he be?"

"Maybe," she allowed with a slight sigh. "But then, it's also a maybe not. This is not a question where there is a clear cut answer, Tim."

"I know." He sighed; rested his head against her chest, and listened to the steady sound of her heartbeat. Comfort and love, he realized. It was exactly what he needed. Suddenly, why Raya was here instead of Dick made absolute and total sense (which was the first bit of clarity he'd had since this whole nightmare began) to him. It all boiled down to the roles that belonged to specific members of a family.

Dick, while being a generously supportive and awesome big brother who always listened whenever he needed an ear or leant a shoulder when he needed one, was just not going to sit on the floor with his arms wrapped around him. It woulda been way too weird and far too uncomfortable for either of them. With Raya, however, this kind of warmth and affection was more than just acceptable. It was _allowable_. It was also what he desperately needed. She was the mast he could tie himself too as the raging waves battered at his ship's bow. She was the shoulder he could always lay his head upon; the arms he could always count would wrap around him when he needed them too, the rock that he could always lean upon when the gale became too much for him to weather.

"Raya?"

"Yes, Tim?"

"Is everything going to be okay?" he raised his head to look at her. His eyes were red rimmed pools in the murkiness of his bedroom. "I mean, are we gonna be okay?"

"We're gonna be okay, Tim," she said with a soft smile. "With time we're all be okay."

"Promise?"

She framed his face with her hands, kissed his forehead. "I promise."

It was yet another of those things only she could he realized. _Dick ever tries to kiss me on the forehead I'll knock him out, _he thought with a slight grin. It was okay if Raya kissed him on the forehead though. She was a girl and kisses from girls, especially when they were kisses from your sister were a perfectly acceptable thing. And wasn't that something, he thought as he stared into her catlike eyes. Wasn't it something to realize that she was as much his older sister as Dick was his oldest brother? _I've sure lucked out_, he mused silently. _For a kid who had no siblings, I've now got two. And they're both pretty awesome_.

"So," he said slowly. "Ya said something about snacking on Skittles and vanilla ice cream while we talked? Well, we kinda already had the talk…"

"You can have your sweet fix." Gently she thumbed beneath his eyes, smoothing away the last vestiges of his tears. "Right after I take a look at your knuckles, 'kay?"

"'Kay."


End file.
